Blame
by ForeverSirius77
Summary: One ran. One pursued. And one tried to understand. There was one night. There were three men. There was one emotion.
1. Part I: Run

_Disclaimer__: Anything you__ recognise__ does not belong to me, however much I wish that it did. Instead, it all belongs to J. K. Rowling. I'm just playing with her creations for the time being. However, anything you do not__ recognise__ does belong to be. _

_Summary__: He ran and ran ... and never stopped running. _

_Author's Note__: I've had this idea for awhile now, and this is one of those__ fics__ that's been in the making for several months, but never actually _worked_ on a great deal, until now. Originally, it was just going to be a little drabble, then it became a one-shot, and as of right now, it's a planned three-shot, with each chapter starring a particular character. Now, I present for your enjoyment, _Blame.

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**Blame**

**By ForeverSirius77  
**

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**Part I: Run**

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A bright moon provided most of the light in the densely wooded area where a single figure could be seen stumbling through the undergrowth. Even the stars seemed blighted out by the darkness of the night, for their twinkling comfort could not be seen by the people awake at this time, especially by the one man wandering through the forest. Only a slight breeze blew through the branches, rustling the autumn leaves and providing the only bits of sound that pure nature gifted to the world on this night. The air stirred the piles of fallen leaves and branches that dotted the well-worn dirt path, the eerie whistling sounds of the wind causing shivers to race up and down the man's spine as he ran.

The man was not like many others who stalked through dark forests in the middle of the night. He was not walking proudly and confidently, knowing that all in his wake – both human and creature – would tremble in fear at his presence. He did not show the self-assuredness and pride of a natural leader, nor did he show the strength and power of a warrior. Neither did he sneak furtively from shadow to shadow, taking care not to be either seen or heard. Rather, this man was behaving quite the opposite of those many expected to see in dark forests.

His breathing was heavy and ragged, sounding like he had ran hard and fast for quite awhile, (which, of course, he had). This man's only furtive movements were the quick glances over his shoulder, making anyone who might have been watching him think he feared being followed. This man was short, a little on the chubby side, and his clothes made one think more of a worker in one of the Ministry's departments … perhaps one of the diplomatic ones, like the Department of International Magical Cooperation – The man seemed to have a kind face, at least, one that seemed nice and trusting, like you could not help but believe him when he made a promise. Overall, he seemed more like a respectable gentleman than someone who runs through forests.

But tonight, any and all of that respectability was gone from the man. Sweat littered his round face, and dirt clutched at the edges of his robes, the brown colour staining that of the grey cloth. Dirt and mud also mixed with the sweat on his hands and face as well, but the man seemed to pay it no mind. His short, blonde hair, while normally nicely combed and cleaned, was now plastered to his sweaty forehead, the ends getting even further tangled as he ran.

And he ran and ran, never seeming to cease in the effort, regardless of how his breathing grew heavier and his heart began to feel like it wanted to burst from his chest. Not even when he looked behind him, insuring that he was alone in the forest, did the man pause in his running. He couldn't afford to, he believed. But it was just this 'not-watching-where-he-was-going' aspect that stopped him. As the man took another glance over his shoulder, he missed seeing the thick tree root that was raised slightly, protruding from the earth and interrupting the path right in front of him. The man was caught by surprise and, his foot catching on the root, stumbled and fell face first onto the dirt path. Several leaves sought to enter his open mouth, but he spit them back out.

For a moment, the small man just lay where he was, breathing heavily and wondering why he should keep running. After all, didn't he deserve to be found? Wouldn't everyone claim that he was no better than the dirt upon which he lay now? That he was utterly and truly worthless?

And wouldn't at least a part of their words be right?

"What have I done?" muttered the man as he sat up. He manoeuvred himself around a bit and, leaning his back up against the rough bark of a nearby tree, held his blonde head in his trembling hands, shaking it back and forth as thoughts overwhelmed him. There were too many thoughts swirling in his mind; too much had happened in the past few hours. At first, he tried to stop the tears that he felt prickling at his eyes from coming. He did not want to cry; he was too old to cry; crying is something he had not done since he was a boy at Hogwarts. Not even at the deaths of Marlene, Dorcas, Gideon, or Fabien had he shed tears … He had not known them very well, though.

But this time, he knew the dead. Oh, yes, he knew those who had died _very _well. He had known them for over ten years, and they had been his friends – best friends. James, who had always been so sure, so confident, and so proud. Nothing could touch James; he was invincible. He had been popular, too; everyone loved James, and everyone wanted to be like James. And Lily, who was beautiful. Lily, who was smart, nice, and always caring and understanding. Lily, who had always been kind and helpful, even to him. She had always smiled, too, and her bright laughter had always lit up a room with joy, no matter how dark things had become.

But now, neither of them would ever be like the people that the man remembered. James would no longer be proud, and Lily would no longer smile. They were not invincible anymore; the darkness had left them marred and fallen. He had seen their cold bodies in the burning rubble that had once been their grand home, and he knew, then, that nothing would be the same. Lily would never smile at him again, nor help him out, and no one would want to be like James now. His friends were gone. They were dead … and it was his fault.

Tears fell from the man's eyes as images of his friends' bodies flashed through his mind. He saw James's black hair and round glasses that lay broken on the ground next to his friend; he saw Lily's fiery tresses and emerald eyes that had lost their glittering light. The man saw the looks of fear, of horror, on their faces, and the expressions were so unlike the confidence and smiling that he remembered. _It was not supposed to have happened like this, _the man thought, not bothering to wipe the rivers of salty liquid that ran down his cheeks, although he knew he was too old to cry.

_Well, what did you expect would happen? _hissed a cold voice in his mind. The man jumped almost as if the voice had actually spoken out loud, rather than just as an internal conscience. His conscience had been silent for so long, after all, that the man had almost believed it had vanished. _When has the Dark Lord ever _not _killed those that he says will die? _

"Tonight," the man whispered. The word came almost immediately, without any thought, to respond to the internal question. Why he felt the need to respond aloud to the internal voice of his conscience, he did not know. And a strange emotion came over the man: he didn't know if it was fear or something else … in a way, he could almost have referred to it as happiness, but such a thing just did not feel very _right_. Surely, the feeling was something _other _than 'happiness'. "He didn't kill them all tonight."

_Yes, he didn't, but that still doesn't alter the first question, _said the voice. _What did you think would happen when the Charm was broken? _

There was silence, still and complete silence in the forest after the question was posed. When the man did not answer, the voice continued. _Did you expect Lily and James to survive? _And, once again, there was no answer. Had the words been spoken out loud, then they surely would have echoed and reverberated around the forest, not wanting to be forgotten. _Did you even _want_ them to live? _

An answer of "Yes, of course I did," was on the tip of the man's tongue, but he did not speak it aloud. He wanted to: the part of his soul and conscience that still lived inside of him made him want to say those words, more than anything in the world. He wanted to say that he never wanted his friends to die, that he never planned on it happening … But that was only a part of him, and it was the part of himself that he had stopped listening to months ago. As the man sat there, leaning up against the cool tree's trunk and not giving any notice to the fact that his robes were becoming more stained and covered in dirt, he realised that he couldn't honestly say those words.

"No," he said, the single word seeming to echo all around him. Even as he spoke the word aloud, that 'good' part of his soul was silenced, repressed and pushed from his mind. He had been ignoring it for so long, doing so once again became easier each time, and this time was no different. The word, so simple in its two letters and single syllable, destroyed one of the most powerful things in the man – the good part of his soul was no more. That single word, "No", had caused it to vanish, to fall forever silent.

But in a twisted sort of way, the word also seemed to give him some strength, and the man expanded his answer to his conscience – No, the inner voice was not the same thing as his conscience; he knew that, now. He had destroyed his conscience, but the voice was something else – a doubt, maybe, or a part of himself that all of the darkness in the world had brought to light. Regardless of what the voice really was, the man knew that he needed to answer it, needed to deal with the questions. "No, I didn't," he said softly. "At least, not all of me did; a part of me didn't want them to live…. I wanted the Dark Lord to succeed."

_And he did, _whispered the voice. _The Dark Lord _did _succeed._

"He didn't," said the man, panic suddenly overtaking him once again as he stumbled back up from the ground, glancing repeatedly over his shoulders. Why had he stayed still for so long? Someone was sure to catch up to him, find him, now. All traces of his previous sadness were instantly taken away, vanished as if wiped away with a magic wand. One would not even have been able to tell that the man had just spent half of an hour sobbing in the forest and dealing with thoughts upon thoughts of the previous few hours. The tears had already mixed with the sweat and dirt on his face. "He fell, defeated, and that _wasn't _supposed to happen," the man hissed, looking over his shoulder again. "They will know it's me –"

_No, they won't, _the voice uttered. _The plan was flawless, remember? No one knew it was you … _

And the man _did _remember; he remembered it all like it was yesterday.

"_We've thought everything out, mate," said the long-haired man sitting across from him. "There's a multitude of wards on the house, but they're just there as a precaution; the wards will be completely unnecessary." _

"_Are you sure?" he asked, glancing at the three people in front of him – his friends. _

"_Of course," whispered the woman, brushing her long, red hair from her face. _

"_No one will know about you, not even Dumbledore … Everyone will think it's Sirius, so you'll be completely safe," said the other man sitting next to him as he looked at him through his glasses. "Like Sirius said, the wards on the house won't get to do anything, as the Death Eaters will never know about you." _

"The Order will think it was Sirius," the man muttered, stopping suddenly before he took off in another run. Was it possible that such knowledge could save him? Was it even a possibility that he could use the fact that no one knew the entire truth as protection? However, his train of thought was abruptly cut off as the other side of the truth came crashing into his head. "But Sirius will know the truth," he said. "The Death Eaters will know the truth … and they'll all come after me –"

_Then run, _said the voice. _Flee, and they will not be able to catch you. Leave. You can get away before anyone finds you. _

The man listened to the voice, whose words seemed so obvious. It was a simple conclusion, really, that would, undoubtedly, work. Surely, everything would work out just fine. There would not be any problems for the man if he managed to get away fast enough. No one would find him that way, he knew, and he would be safe. Protected.

And with that thought, Peter Pettigrew ran. He ran from the forest, he ran from the fear, he ran from those who he knew would be chasing him.

And in running, he left his guilt behind.

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_Author's__ Note__: Well, thank you all for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this little look into Wormtail, everyone's "favourite" little rat. Stay tuned for the second part, in which the starring character is the one and only Padfoot[Orders everyone to give loud cheers of joy at the news that her favourite character is in the next part. And please, let me know what you think of this first part, mainly in concern with Peter. As much as I hate him and wish he'd die a very slow and agonising death, I tried to be fair to his character here, and not _just_ portray him as a snivelling, cowardly, traitorous, evil rat-boy – OK, I'll stop the ranting, I promise. _

_Really, though, let me know what you think!_

_--ForeverSirius77_


	2. Part II: Pursue

_Disclaimer__: Anything you recognise does not belong to me, however much I wish that it did. Instead, it all belongs to J. K. Rowling. I'm just playing with her creations for the time being. However, anything you do not recognise does belong to be. _

_Summary__: It wasn't a nightmare this time. He couldn't just wake up to see that everyone was alive, safe. No, this time, it was real. _

_Author's Note__: Yes, I apologise for the delay in getting this second part out. What I had written initially needed some extensive editing and it all took a bit more time than I'd expected at first. But, it's here now. A "Thank You" goes out to __**Nikki (fg-weasley) **__of MNFF for beta-ing this part! Now, I present for your enjoyment, _Part II _of _Blame, _entitled, _Pursue.

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**Blame**

**By ForeverSirius77**

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**Part II: Pursue**

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_Green light. Bright, rushing green light tearing through the air, the sickly colour shining through the windows. Orange flames leaping up, their fiery tendrils engulfing the smouldering, blackened wood. Crackles of fire, screams, high pitched laughter and voices echoing around, the horrific sounds only broken by the cry of a young baby. Cold, lifeless bodies lying in burning grass and piles of rubble. James's eyes staring lifeless into the dark sky. Lily sprawled unmoving a few feet away. Harry crying next to his mother. A baby's pleas that would forever go unanswered –_

With a start, Sirius jerked awake, gasping for breath and shaking his head in a hurried attempt to clear it of the sights and sounds of his nightmares. He had not meant to fall asleep, hadn't even remembered sitting on the bench in the first place, but it seemed that his exhaustion had finally won out. His head fell into his rough, cut hands.

It had been so clear, so vivid, in his mind. The dark thoughts had haunted his dreams for days – weeks, even, if he was honest with himself. Ever since they had told him of the danger, he'd been assaulted with thoughts of 'the worst' happening. Every night. It never failed. But that was all they had been: dreams, nightmares. He had always been able to wake up in the morning, see the sun shining through the window in his room, and know that everything would be fine. Everyone would be alive; everyone would be safe.

But not this time.

That same scene that had made up his worst fear for so long wasn't only playing like a sharp film in his nightmares.

Now, it was real.

He had felt the heat of the fire and had the slight burns and singed clothes to prove it. He had the cuts on his hands from digging through the broken boards and tossing aside destroyed furniture to reach his friends. He had seen with his own eyes the piles of rubble that were all that was left of a once-grand and elegant home, the white paint of the house now blackened. He had stumbled over the stones that made up the destroyed front walk, had climbed the trembling staircase to the second floor.

He had seen the cold, dead, unmoving bodies of his friends. He had heard the cries of the one-year-old baby sitting next to his still mother –

It wasn't a nightmare now. The sun wouldn't shine through the window, everything _wouldn't _be fine.

He couldn't wake up from it this time.

His heart raced and pounded against his chest. He stubbornly blinked back the tears that stung at his eyes, demanding to fall. Summoning every bit of strength that he had, Sirius shoved the emotions aside for the moment. There would time to remember later; there would be time to mourn afterwards.

But not now.

A cool breeze whipped through the air suddenly, the icy wind already harsh and cutting on this early November day as winter made its arrival known. Sirius shivered, pulling his warm jacket tighter around him in an effort to protect him from the low temperatures. Unfortunately, though, the shiver that raced up and down his spine, freezing him all of the way through, was not just caused by the outer cold.

An inner coldness gripped Sirius's soul in its grasp, emotions and memories trying to force themselves to the forefront of his mind, trying to _make _him focus on them. Icy tendrils of guilt, sadness, and regret all wrapped themselves around his heart and mind, squeezing, jerking. His heart pounded and breathing grew difficult. The emotions were trying to stop him, trying to cripple him.

But Sirius would let nothing get in the way of _this _pursuit.

Slowly, stubbornly, he stumbled up from the wooden bench upon which he had collapsed some time ago. (He had no way to really know whether he'd been there for minutes or hours, after all. It had been dark when he'd stopped, and the sky was still black now.) Making sure that he was steady on his feet once again, he continued on his journey.

_Just one foot in front of the other, _he thought.

For hours, Sirius had searched. Hours had passed since he had left Godric's Hollow; it had been hours since he had watched Hagrid fly off with his godson. He had made his decision, figured out what he was going to do, hours ago. And with a purpose in his head, he had shoved the grief aside and walked on. Searching.

But for all of his efforts, he had come no closer to finding the one that he sought. Sirius had not figured, initially upon choosing this option, that it would be so difficult to accomplish.

After all, witches and wizards would be flocking the streets and gathering together as news of Voldemort's defeat spread. The darkness that had terrorised the Wizarding World for years was no more, gone, vanquished.

Peter would not exactly be able to blend in very well with everyone as crowds gathered tonight to celebrate.

_Celebrate. _

Just the thought of that one, simple, innocent word caused Sirius to stumble once again, losing his footing and barely catching himself on a nearby, rusty metal railing. He paid no attention to the pain that he felt as his cut hands impacted the metal, the sting that came as the scratches met the icy, grey handrail. _Celebrate. _

How could anyone wish to celebrate today? How could anyone contemplate being filled with happiness and cheer after what had happened last night? After the death and the bodies, the fire and the rubble, the screams and the cries? What was there to _celebrate _in that?

Sirius, personally, could barely think of smiling again himself, much less laughing joyously and _celebrating. _He had no reason to do any of that. It wasn't a nightmare this time. His friend – his brother – was gone, dead, never to come back …

And he was to blame.

"No," he growled to the world at large. He knew that no one was around to hear him, and it was not like he _actually _needed to be heard. The words just needed to be said. Over and over, he had thought the simple words, had silently uttered the denial of those guilty emotions that hissed the same thing to him.

_It's your fault. _Over and over, that dark, inner voice whispered those statements to him like a chant. _It's your fault, _the voice always said. _You're the one to blame. _

He had silently denied the voice for hours, ever since he'd realised that everything had gone so very wrong. He could not just think the denials now, though. They had to be heard. Spoken. Aloud. If not for anyone else, Sirius _himself _needed to hear them.

"I'm not."

The universe gave him no answer, of course, but Sirius did not need to hear one. For hours, he had suppressed these thoughts, had pushed them away – or had tried to – but they seemed determined to haunt him.

_They're dead, _the voice uttered. _Dead and gone. Harry's never going to know his mother and father. _

Running a hand harshly through his long, black hair, Sirius shook his head, as if such a simple action could stop the thoughts, could silence that damn inner voice.

_And it's your fault. _The voice was gentle, yet mocking, as it taunted. _You've made your godson an orphan. _If the voice had been real, had had a face, he was sure it would have been smirking. _You're the one to blame. _It continued to hiss, whisper. Like it wanted nothing else than to cause him pain. Like pouring salt in a fresh wound. _It's. All. Your. Fault. _

Eyes squeezed shut, Sirius froze, stopping right where he stood and standing in the very middle of the concrete sidewalk. His fingers grasped his hair as his head fell into his hands, the strands of dark hair that weren't held in his grasp swinging side to side as he shook his head. A distant, logical part of his mind realised how he must have looked to any outside observer: either mad or drunk (or both, he supposed; drunken men could be mad men as well).

The mumbling that the black-haired wizard was doing also would not help a case for sanity.

"It wasn't me," he muttered, trying to get that voice to shut up.

_Your fault, _it hissed.

Variations of "No" continued to fall from his lips, the words running together as they were whispered. His breathing was heavy, ragged, like he had run a great distance with all the speed that he could muster. The emotions that came with the voice continued to rise up in him, the guilt wrapping around him, trying to suffocate him.

_All … Your … Fault … _

If the voice had had a body, Sirius was sure it would have been dancing. The smirk would have grown wider, the glee barely suppressed. Like having Peeves's mocks sung over and over in his ear.

_They're dead, _it whispered.

Sirius's fervent silent and muttered denials didn't seem to silence its taunts.

_Gone and never coming back. _

Grief, guilt, regret – their holds grew tighter. He shook his head, hissed that it _wasn't _his fault, anything to get the voice to just _stop! _

He'd tried all those things before, though, and the voice had never quit.

_The blame lies with you –_

"NO!" he exclaimed, the denial not muttered or whispered like all the others had been. Had anyone been around, heads would surely have turned in his direction at the shout.

But at such an early hour, he was alone on the street.

"No, no … It wasn't – I didn't know." The phrases were rushed, flowing out as if all coming on one pant of breath. "It wasn't me … Peter. It was Peter."

_Peter. _

That word – that single name – finally did what all of the silent and muttered denials, what all of the head shakes and efforts to keep such crippling emotions of grief and guilt away had failed to do.

It silenced the taunting voice.

As he whispered the name, another emotion swirled through Sirius's veins. But it was not the cold, crippling guilt or the overwhelming grief that blurred his focus. No, it made his heart beat savagely and his hands began to tremble – not in fear or nervousness, no – but in something entirely different.

Pure, unadulterated rage.

The anger coursed through him, his blood boiling, and he yearned for the power and emotion that was building within him to be released. He was suffocating, but the anger wasn't the same as the grief and guilt. Grief and guilt could be suppressed far more easily than anger could. It needed to get out, Sirius knew.

Emotion always had an effect on a wizard's magic; intent, feeling, meaning all had just as much influence on spells as the words and wand movements themselves did – and perhaps even _more _influence. The stronger the emotion was, the more it influenced one's magic. Some – grief, despair – crippled the wizard; others – rage, pain – brought focus, increased power.

And Sirius had had plenty of experience with his anger.

He knew that it had to be unleashed and set free. He knew that he needed the outlet for his rage, knew what he wanted. He knew what needed to – and what should – be done.

Before he had realised it, Sirius found himself gripping his ebony wand in his hand, the dark, cylindrical wood cool against his own, hot hands.

He hadn't even been consciously aware of when he had removed his hand from his hair, when he'd reached into his pocket to pull out the wand. He glanced down at the wooden object, his eyes staring at it almost like he had never seen it before. He was entranced by the black wood against the pale skin of his hands, the flawless and polished instrument against the scratches and cuts.

The feeling of the wand in his hand seemed to soothe him. The flood of anger seemed to slow, relax. As if the presence of the wand had told it that it would soon have its target. His heart was no longer pounding against his chest, bursting to get out. It was steady, regular. Breathing was no longer difficult. Each inhale and exhale of air was smooth, normal.

The crippling emotions had been suppressed, the intensifying ones soon to be satiated.

He was calm. Focussed.

Sirius tore his gaze from the wand in his hands and glanced up at the sky. He noticed the slightly misty look of light that had appeared, breaking up the thick darkness of the night. Faint colours could be seen on the horizon as they signalled the fact that a new day was approaching.

It would be a new day to bring a new start to the Wizarding World. It would be a new day that brought with it the defeat of darkness … But it was also a new day that James and Lily, his friends – no, his _family _– would never get to see.

_And it was because of him, _thought Sirius bitterly. A mental image of the man that they had all once called a friend – that they had thought of as a _brother _– became clear in his mind's eye. Sirius saw the short, blond-haired wizard vividly.

He saw the eleven-year-old boy that they'd met years ago. He saw the teenager that they'd laughed and planned pranks with. He saw the man that they'd trusted.

He saw the man that had betrayed that trust. He saw the coward. He saw the spy.

He saw the Death Eater.

Sirius saw, clearly and vividly in his mind's eye, the reason why his brother was dead. Sirius saw the reason why Lily would never smile and laugh again, why Harry would never get to know his parents.

_He was the reason, _Sirius thought, moving from the spot he'd stopped on the sidewalk earlier.

He put one foot in front of the other. One step forwards … Two steps … Walk.

Never before had Sirius wanted to kill anyone so much, wanted to destroy something so utterly.

Deep breath.

But Peter Pettigrew was the reason that this time, everything was _not _just a nightmare. It was Peter's fault that everyone would not be safe and alive come morning.

He was the reason that this time, everything was real, and that Sirius wouldn't just be able to _wake up. _

And Sirius would make sure that the traitor got _exactly _what he deserved.

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_Author's __Note__: Alright, there you have it. That's the end of Sirius's part, and Remus's will be coming up next. Also, additional 'thanks' goes to _RemusSiriusJames _and _ariex _for reviewing the first part of this story, as well as to _Narya's Bane _for adding it to their alerts. I really appreciate it all! _

_Thank you all for reading the story and I hope you enjoyed it. Let me know what you think!_

_--ForeverSirius77_


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